


Peaches

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Endgame what Endgame, M/M, No Underage Sex, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Peter is 22, Porn, Tony is definitely Not Okay, Tony/Pepper is background, With Feelings?, and then pining follows, but he will be eventually, idk this is gonna be mostly Tony figuring things out, is that the new EWE, obviously, some self-awareness is definitely the end goal here, we start with porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-10 10:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19904140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: All things considered, Tony thinks he’s probably handling his breakup with Pepper better than expected.





	1. Chapter 1

Tony has always felt secure in the certainty that the porn he watches has no bearing on real life. He is not his porn. It is not a reflection on him. The stuff he gets off to in his alone time is not necessarily something he would find appealing outside of that particular context, or something he would ever pursue with a partner. It’s fantasy, most of it—and as long as it’s not hurting anyone, it’s all good.

The video in question isn’t even particularly filthy—by industry standards, it’s positively tame. When he stumbles across it, Tony is ten days and a lot of single-malt out from a broken engagement. Because he’s Tony Stark, it’s not exactly your run-of-the-mill broken engagement: it’s seven years with the best woman he has ever known culminating in her leaving the country because the United States of America are not large enough for the sort of space she needs from him. The truth of it is that they never really recovered from Titan. He’s not sure Pepper ever forgave him for leaving her behind a second time, and honestly he can’t blame her. Tony might have made it back physically, but he sure as hell left something behind, because everything after that orange sky is just—washed out. Even after they put the world back together, recovered the people they’d lost, things were different. They both felt it. Neither one of them wanted to admit it.

Their problem—Pepper’s more than Tony’s, because she at least deserves better—is that they’ve been together so long that they don’t know how to function without one another. Not really. He’s too used to needing her and she’s too used to being needed.

Problem solved.

Point is, Tony is not in a great place, when he finds the video. But it doesn’t have anything to do with _Pepper_ , beyond the fact that imagining being with any woman right now seems a sure way to kill a hard on, so he’s watching men instead. It’s hardly the first time. And yeah, he’s alone, but mostly because the idea of seeking actual company gives him a headache. This is better. Cleaner—in an emotional sense, at least. He’s stretched out on top of the covers, stroking himself idly and scrolling without any real intent or interest, until a flash of colour catches his eye. He clicks the link.

It’s obviously amateur, and definitely self-filmed. The guy’s probably somewhere in his twenties, if Tony’s any judge; the shot is framed from the neck down, so it’s hard to be sure, but his thighs are thick with the sort of musculature it’s hard to build when you’re young. Narrow hips and waist and surprisingly broad shoulders by comparison, but it’s his thighs that draw Tony’s attention, spread wide and straining under the bright material of his boxers. It’s the boxers that caught Tony’s eye as he scrolled past: white and printed all over with fruit— _peaches_. Tony is amused. Also surprisingly turned on, suddenly—something about the shoulders to waist ratio and the perfect arc of that body pings something in Tony’s hindbrain, and his cock, which had up to this point only been taking a vague interest in proceedings, is now standing to attention.

Standing to attention is actually a pretty good description of Peaches, too. He’s on his knees, sitting back on his heels, with those thighs spread in a vee and his back ever so slightly arched and the long line of his hard cock clearly visible through the white fabric. He looks like a sculpture—like a living sculpture, rocking back and forth just a little, but not touching himself, not yet. Tony can’t say the same. Peaches has something inside him, Tony thinks, based on the way he’s holding himself, and the way his cock twitches visibly inside his boxers with every rotation of his hips. Tony can’t see it, but he can tell it’s there, and hitting a good spot if that heavy breathing is any indication. He turns the volume up as high as it’ll go, so that he can hear every shaky inhale. Every time a hum of pleasure escapes with an exhale. The guy is actually surprisingly quiet—which is even hotter, makes it feel less like a performance and more like something he’s taking for himself.

Tony wants to make him moan.

The urgency of it takes him by surprise, but he can imagine, vividly, peeling those pretty boxers down and sucking wet bruises into the insides of those thighs, until the guy is shuddering and squirming and begging Tony to—.

_Fuck._ He’s really fucking close. Tony forces himself to slow his strokes until he feels in control again. The video is sixteen minutes long and four minutes in Tony is this close to losing it like a fucking teenager. _Jesus_. 

Peaches is still rocking his hips steadily, without regard for Tony’s apparent lack of stamina. There’s a small but noticeable wet spot growing on the peach boxers; Tony can see the outline of the head through the fabric. If he were there, he’d pull the fabric away carefully with his teeth.

Peaches does one better—dips his fingers tantalisingly just below the waistband, so that for a moment Tony thinks he’s finally going to take himself in hand. Instead, he hooks his thumbs in the elastic so that he can pull it away from the skin, and Tony is treated to the briefest glimpse of toned abdomen, before he lets it snap back into place. The impact has him shuddering, breaking that perfect posture for an instant. Gasping out loud.

_God. Fuck._

Twelve minutes in, Tony’s hand is slick, slick on his cock, and the rocking of the guy’s hips has reached a crescendo. They’re on edge, both of them—Tony can’t remember being this hard, can’t remember feeling this good, but he’s not going to come. Not yet.

Fourteen minutes in, the realization strikes: Peaches is _not going to touch himself_. His cock is jumping beneath the taut, wet fabric with each snap of his hips, and he’s trembling, chest heaving, but his fingers are gripping his ankles, muscles of his arms pulled tight. Ragged breathing halting abruptly as his stomach clenches and then he’s coming, cock spurting white ribbons through the cotton and _fuck, fuck_ —Tony’s gone too.

Tony just lies there for a few minutes afterwards, release seeping through his limbs like a drug. He feels—heavy, in a good way, in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time. Inside his body and out of it, both at the same time.

On screen, Peaches uncurls and leans across to turn the camera off.

Tony does something he has never bothered to do: he saves the video.

.

All things considered, Tony thinks he’s probably handling his breakup with Pepper better than expected. He’s not drinking himself into a stupor, at least. Or having a fully-fledged breakdown. So he’s working a bit more than usual—which, yeah, okay, his usual is already not great, but it could _absolutely_ be worse—and jacking off a lot to a faceless man in fruity underwear. There’s a scale, and worse things have happened. People should be congratulating him, really, rather than making that sad-sack expression at him when he declines dinner invitations. He’s doing just fine. Coping mechanisms are in place, if not entirely conventional.

So, yeah. The video has nothing to do with Pepper, really nothing at all to do with anything—right up until a week after Peter Parker moves into the compound, when Tony comes downstairs to find a pair of peach-print boxers draped over a drying rack.

That’s when he has the breakdown.


	2. Chapter 2

“Thank you,” Peter says, apropos of nothing. He refused to let Tony pick him up from his student digs in the Maserati—“since, of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s actually managed to maintain a secret identity for any length of time, I’m thinking you go with me on this”—which means that they’re currently in the back of the Audi on the way to the airport.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony says, automatically. “Or, you know, _do_ , since I have no idea what I did to merit thanks. Other than exist, which—you’re welcome.”

Peter’s grinning at him, which is always encouraging, but there’s something softer there too, Tony thinks. Something in the way that he says, “Thank you for not asking me if I’m sure.”

The kid is fresh out of MIT, with outstanding grades and job offers from half a dozen of SI’s rivals, a standing offer from the Jones girl to join her in South America, and instead he’s packing his life up into far too few boxes and moving them into the Avengers compound. Signing the Accords. Leaving the neighbourhood. His aunt’s not entirely happy about it, but she’s been keeping her opinions to herself—unless she’s talking to Tony, of course, and then she makes them abundantly clear.

He wonders who’s been giving unsolicited advice; under ordinary circumstances he’d suspect Rogers, but even Cap knows hassling Peter is the surest way to pick a fight with Tony. These days, they tread more lightly around one another than that. Michelle undoubtedly has views on the matter, good or bad or both, but she and Peter are comfortable enough needling one another that Tony can’t see it riling him up. Wilson, maybe. Seems like the sort of thing he’d be likely to ask.

Fuck them, anyway. Fuck anyone who still doubts Peter Parker’s capacity to do the right thing. 

“Kid,” Tony says, “I have never known you to be anything other than sure.”

“People keep asking.”

“People are idiots. You had good instincts long before you were bitten by any radioactive spiders.”

“You never met me pre-Spiderman,” Peter reminds him, but he looks pleased, nonetheless. There’s a blush creeping up his neck that belies the challenge in his voice.

“You’re not a different person,” Tony says, with absolute confidence. “I’ve known you how many years now? You’ve not changed that much.”

“You’d be surprised,” Peter says.

.

He’s not wrong. Tony is surprised.

Stunned is probably a better word for it. A little bit broken? Shaken. Hairline fracture. For the first time in— _years_ , probably, Tony’s brain actually grinds to a halt. It’s just—white noise. It probably doesn’t help that he’s the wrong side of a particularly long stretch in the lab. He hasn’t asked FRIDAY for a time check, but it’s definitely _early_ early because no one else is up yet and Wilson has been going for a run every morning at five thirty for as long as he’s lived here. (Tony can’t seem to dissuade him. He’s tried. The man’s a masochist.)

But yeah, Tony’s not processing. He’s seeing the white cotton boxers with the elasticated waistband and the peach print hanging on the drying rack next to a Star Wars t-shirt but he’s not thinking about what that _means_ , because he’s not actually sure he can handle the implications at this particular moment.

There’s only one reasonable course of action: Tony flees the scene.

They’re Peter’s, for sure. No one else here does their own laundry—even Rogers consented to someone else doing his delicates after the time he flooded the basement. Tony hasn’t been able to train Peter out of it yet; apparently he’s doing it in the dead of night, probably when he thinks he’s least likely to inconvenience someone. 

Part two of the plan is apparently sneaking downstairs to collect it all before anyone else is awake. “Mr Stark,” Peter says, with obvious surprise, when Tony runs into him in the corridor, “you’re out.”

 _You’re out_. Not, _you’re up_. That’s probably significant. If it were Rhodey saying it, there’d be an undertone of _now get some fresh air, for fuck’s sake_ , but since it’s Peter it’s eighty per cent genuinely pleased to see him, twenty per cent instinctively and inexplicably guilty. Because Peter Parker is the sort of person who feels guilty for doing laundry—non-specific, completely unremarkable—secretly in the middle of the night. It’s hard to tell in the half-light of the hallway, but Tony thinks he looks a little flushed. He’s also tousle-headed and wearing Hulk pyjama pants, which under ordinary circumstances would prompt accusations of betrayal ( _et tu, Brute?_ ) or at the very least some light ribbing, but at this moment commenting on items of clothing would be treading dangerously close to a conversation Tony _does not want to be having_ , so instead he says, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Because that’s better. Christ. This is why Tony doesn’t go out any more.

“Some of us have been to bed already, Mr Stark.”

“Some of us not you,” Tony says, and Peter shrugs, caught.

“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he says, rather than offer any explanation. It’s not accusatory, but Tony feels that twist of guilt all the same. He’s not the best company right now, he knows, and Peter’s probably still feeling out of place—just moved in and all. “You working on something?”

Odds are since they last spoke Tony invented or upgraded at least five things Peter would find interesting, but right now he can’t think of a single one. He’d be impressed by how effectively this moment has shorted his circuits, if he weren’t busy frantically trying to conceal that fact. He says instead, “Oh, just—soldering. You know.” Balance of probability, there was some soldering. 

“Gotta meet those soldering deadlines,” Peter agrees, readily. His eyes are bright with amusement.

Tony frowns. “You are far too impertinent,” he tells him. “Clearly I have not instilled in you the proper amount of respect.”

Peter shakes his head, still grinning. “I used to think you were so _slick_ ,” he says. 

The part of Tony that once purchased and then craned in a fifteen foot custom rabbit protests before he can stop it. “I _am_ so slick,” he informs him. _Abort_ , he thinks, immediately after. There was a part of Tony that remembered how to function like a normal human being. It’s just—temporarily out of commission.

“Maybe after you’ve slept more than three hours together,” Peter allows.

“You can quit it with the sensible advice too,” Tony says. “I won’t tolerate it.”

Tony makes a point of not tracking his sleep patterns; FRIDAY has that data somewhere, and the authorization to use it to lock him out of the lab when sleep deprivation is likely to render him a danger to himself or others, but Tony never looks at it. He’s fine. He’s got it under control. Still, sleep’s not a bad idea. He’s very clearly not firing on all cylinders, and as methods of avoidance go you really can’t beat unconsciousness. More importantly, it’s a convenient opening to excuse himself, and Tony needs out of this conversation before he says or does something he can’t take back.

And if he’s more likely at this point to lie awake thinking about things he _absolutely_ cannot afford to think about, well. That’s what the good drugs are for, isn’t it?


End file.
